She shrieked, “Let me go, Amos! I will kill you! I swear to God I will kill you, you son of a bitch. I…will…kill…”
She kept ranting and struggling, but he held her tight until she finally fell limp in his arms, her head down, her legs dangling. Exhausted. Her breaths came in ragged gasps.
The cop looked up at her. “I was trying to tell you that your family is okay.”
“What!” she screamed. “Then why the hell are all these people here?”
Decker slowly set her on the ground.
The cop said, “Because there was an incident.”
“I tried calling in to dispatch, but I couldn’t get through,” said Lancaster. “Where the hell is my family?”
“They’ve been taken into protective custody.”
“What? Why?”
“Captain Miller’s orders.”
At that moment Miller walked out of the house.
“Captain, what the hell is going on?” asked Lancaster.
“Earl and Sandy are fine.”
“What’s the incident?” asked Decker.
“Some things left in the house.”
“What things?” asked Decker, his gaze dead on Miller.
“Amos, you might want to sit this one out.”
“That won’t be happening unless you have some more officers on the scene.” Decker glanced menacingly at the pair of uniforms who had tried to stop Lancaster.
“All right, then,” said Miller, and he led the way inside.
They entered the kitchen. Decker eyed the beer bottles on the table and the overturned chair.
“I thought you said nothing happened!” cried out Lancaster.
“It’s not what it seems to be,” said Miller. “It’s…it’s all….” He couldn’t finish.
Decker’s gut took a jolt as the man struggled to find the words.
Miller led them into the adjoining room.
On the floor was a body. Well, it wasn’t an actual body. It was a life-size inflatable male mannequin. Someone had colored its head brownish gray. But Decker’s attention was riveted on the streak of red drawn across its neck.
“Was…was that supposed to be Earl?” said Lancaster.
“I think so,” said Miller hesitantly, with a quick glance at Decker. “Sick bastard.”
Decker also noted that an X had been drawn over each of the mannequin’s eyes.
Everyone had seen mannequins before. They were ubiquitous and thus innocuous. But this mannequin—it was the most sinister thing Decker had ever seen. It was like the threes marching in the dark at him. Pale, bloody, staring, silent, lifeless; the symbolism reeked of depravity.
Decker looked toward the stairs. And then he looked all around. He had been here several times in the past. But his mind, while obviously registering this fact, had now connected it to another fact.
This house was nearly an exact copy of Decker’s. Not unusual in working-class cookie-cutter communities, where one builder used the same set of plans in constructing hundreds of houses that were essentially the same structures, but for a different color paint or some minor architectural differences.
“So there’s another one of, what, Sandy?” said Lancaster. She put a hand out and snagged the back of a chair to steady herself.
“There’s another mannequin up there, yes,” said Miller, again nervously eyeing Decker.
In Decker’s mind he thought back to when he had bolted up stairs very much like these at his house the night he had lost everything.
“So there’s just one more of…of these things in my house,” barked Lancaster.
Decker looked back at the mannequin with the “slit” throat and then his gaze settled on Miller. And something in those eyes, coupled with what he had just deduced, made Decker say, “No, there’re two more there.”
“Yes,” said Miller miserably. “Two more.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” said Lancaster. “There’s just Earl and Sandy. Wait, is one supposed to be me?”
Decker was already heading for the stairs.
The first door they came to was partially open. Decker pushed it all the way open and they stepped inside.
A leg was sticking up on the other side of the bed, just as he knew it would be. He stepped to that side of the bed and looked down. As he knew it would be, this mannequin was a female dressed in a see-through nightgown. There was a blackened dot drawn in the center of its forehead to represent a bullet being fired into its head. Her eyes, too, had been marked with Xs.
Miller said to Decker, “I guess you know where the third victim is?”
Lancaster gaped as the truth struck her. “Oh my God, that’s supposed to be…”
“Cassie,” Decker finished for her.
Miller put an arm on Decker’s shoulder. “Amos, why don’t you go on back downstairs?”
Decker shook his head. “No.”
“Amos, please.”
“No!”
He bolted down the hall and opened the door to the bathroom. The others rushed after him.
On the toilet was the third mannequin, smaller, a child. They had even drawn in curly hair on the head, like Molly’s. The robe belt held her upright. Ligature marks had been drawn in around her throat; Xs had been drawn over the eyes.
The killers had indeed replicated exactly what had happened at Decker’s home, but fortunately substituting mannequins for real people.
But there was one difference, a significant one.
Above the toilet were words inked onto the walclass="underline"
This could so easily have been real. But ask yourself this. How much pain will you cause, bro? End it now. Do the right thing. Like you should have back then. Find the courage. Don’t be a coward, bro. Not now. Or next time the blood will be real. Last chance.
Decker stared at the words for the longest time.
Then he turned and left the room, took the steps two at a time, and walked outside. Lancaster and Miller followed him. She caught up with him at the end of the driveway.
“Where are you going?” she demanded.
“I’m sorry for all this, Mary.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. My family is fine.”
“They won’t be next time. They’ll be dead.”
“No they won’t. Look, this is not about you. It’s about them.”
“No, it’s about me and them.”
He set off down the street as snowflakes swirled around him.
Chapter
49
DECKER WAS SITTING on the bed in his room at the Residence Inn. The snow continued to fall outside, but the ground was warm enough that most of it wasn’t sticking. It was just slush. Just like his mind was.
My wonderfully perfect mind that remembers all.
But parts of his thoughts were crystal clear.
In his hand Decker held his pistol. A nice, serviceable weapon. He had carried it with him as a detective. And had brought it with him into civilian life.
This was also the pistol he had first stuck in his mouth and then placed against his head as he sat on the floor staring at his dead daughter.
He had not pulled the trigger that night and still didn’t exactly know why. With a perfect memory did not come a perfect mind, or resolute decisions. Sometimes with perfection on one end of the equation, one was left with stark imprecision on the other. Perhaps it was nature’s way of balancing things.
Regardless, he had not killed himself that night.
But tonight was a new night, wasn’t it?
He racked the slide and heard a round fall neatly into the chamber. He nudged off the safety and raised the weapon to his head, placing it against his right temple.
Find the courage. Don’t be a coward, bro. End it now.
Decker thought that there must be both courage and cowardice in killing oneself. Did he have enough of both? Or was he totally lacking?
Yet he thought he did. Now, anyway.
He closed his eyes and let his finger drift to the trigger guard and then to the trigger. A couple foot-pounds of pressure and it would be over. It was the narrowest gap in the world, between the finger and the trigger. A simple movement, hook the digit and pull back. Folks did it every day, only not with a gun.